


Glorfindel's Twenty-Four Hour Donuts

by almost_teacup



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, Coffeeshop AU, Crack, F/F, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-15 15:21:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11808714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almost_teacup/pseuds/almost_teacup
Summary: Tumblr Prompt: Retelling of the Hobbit where Thorin Oakenshield & Company once owned a Coffeeshop known for its specialty, the Arkenscone. Smaug bought out the coffeeshop to turn it into a Starbucks, and Thorin and Co have to travel with Bilbo the Pastry Chef to regain the place.No donuts are sold at Glorfindel's Twenty-Four Hour Donuts, a coffee-shop run by Arwen and Tauriel at the center of town. Gandalf is taking a band of hipsters through said town to reclaim their own cafe in a large van, named Shadowfax, with Bilbo the Pastry-chef in tow. Along the way, they will meet such bizarre characters as Thranduil, the party king at the edge of the woods, Elrond, owner of Rivendell inn and perhaps too good a singer, and Smaug, the extremely evil thief of Erebor Coffee.





	1. Chapter 1

 

“Who’s here?” Arwen asked when the bell rang. She was seated behind the counter of Glorfindel’s Twenty-Four-Hour Donuts, where she was supposed to be working, but it had slowed down and _working_ had turned into _sitting on the floor reading,_ which she didn’t much mind. It was already eight. No one would be in for a long time yet, if they came at all this night. 

Glorfindel’s Twenty-Four-Hour Donuts did not sell donuts. Glorfindel did not own it. He had sent a strange and rather brief note passing it on to the Peredhel family three years ago, in favor of hunting—well, whatever he’d gone after in the woods to the Northwest. And though they were often open in the middle of the night, they were usually not open for twenty-four hours straight. Thus it was an ill-named shop, but none of the Peredhels could bring themselves to take down the elegant lettering over the front window, and so they had never renamed the place. 

The bell rang again. Apparently whoever came in wasn’t staying. Sometimes customers did that when they realized the place didn’t sell what it advertised. Usually they either knew what it was, or had been traveling long enough that they didn’t care what it was. Either way, the misnomers above the door didn’t hinder business very much. 

Tauriel sat behind the counter as well, but in a tall chair covered in mismatched floral fabrics, so unlike Arwen, she could see what was happening in the shop before them.

“It’s Stoner Grandpa!” the redhead announced cheerfully. “He must’ve gone back out for something.”

Arwen yawned, nodded, and made no move to get up. Mithrandir was too much a fixture in town, and a regular at the store, for her to have to. His orders were always quite simple, and she’d long since learned there were no formalities with the old man. 

He had been a friend of her family’s forever. In fact, she remembered assuming he was a wizard as a child, when she was still immersed in faery-tales, and asking him to do magic. When she had grown older and learned what magic really was, she realized Mithrandir's work in the world could never be labeled so easily.

That was for another day. 

Tauriel was the one who invented the epithet _Stoner Grandpa,_ and Arwen couldn’t disagree with it. It was too accurate. It acknowledged the pipe he was continually smoking, but also claimed him as a member of a family: he was not merely _someone’s_ stoner grandpa. He was _hers._ It was nearly an honor.

“There’s people with him.” Tauriel said.

Arwen could see her friend’s eyes widen. _And what beautiful eyes, too—_ she noted, and then— _not this again. Rein it in._

She turned her attention to more practical matters, like the fact that Mithrandir usually rode a rickety bike and traveled alone, unless he was with her grandmother, who rode a less rickety bike, and didn’t. This had to be about something bizarre: the man was too attached to the old forests to be driving unless he absolutely had to. _Too much driving hurts the trees, Arwen—_ she’d heard him say it more times than she could count, and consequently, never owned a car herself. 

“Is he driving Shadowfax again?”

“Is Shadow-fax a hippie van?”

“Yes.”

“Then yeah, he is. Wait, wait, he’s got—five, six—ten—it’s like he has a whole freakin’ band in there. Maybe two.” 

It figured. If Mithrandir were to carry anybody around, it would be a couple of bands. Conversely, if any bands had to travel in a hippie van, he’d be driving it.

Arwen stood up. 

Well, this was certainly bizarre. Mithrandir was just walking in, leading a large group of hipsters. The hipsters looked related. At least overly similar. They all certainly accentuated Mithrandir’s height. They also all had exceedingly elaborate beards, and were dressed as though it was freezing outside, which she didn’t think it was. And—hang on, was that a _sword_ at one of their belts? Not unheard of, but bizarre around these parts. 

Mithrandir gave a cheerful wave of his walking-stick, which he held under his arm like a jousting-spear when he rode his bike, and lent the usual conspiratorial smile. He had a particular smile, a different one, for every person he knew, though his most sizable grin was reserved for Telperion, who was technically Galadriel's cat, but nearly a person in most other respects.

“Tauriel! Arwen! Meet the Company I’m traveling with.” Arwen knew she’d never remember the names he rattled off, but tried to look attentive as he said:

“Ori, Dori, Nori, Balin, Dwalin, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Gloin, Oin, Fili, Kili, and Thorin Oakenshield.”

“They’re _all_ Oakenshields? All thirteen?” Tauriel asked, as she began to brew shots of espresso.

“No, no, Thorin’s just the only one who cares about a last name.” one of them called out from the back. Thorin turned, presumably to glare. Arwen, meanwhile, wondered why their names all rhymed with one another.

“You got any beer?” One of them asked. Bombur? Pupper? Zucchini? Whatever his name was. Arwen glanced over to Tauriel. This might not be pretty.

“Green juice?” another inquired hopefully, before she had the chance to answer. This _definitely_ wouldn’t be pretty.

“You see the sign?” she asked, a leading question for anyone who knew her, which sounded innocent to a stranger. The problem was that Tauriel rather famously hated anything even faintly hipster, and these guys reeked of hipster. 

“Um, the _Last Homely Café West of Boston?”_

“What does that mean?” another voice asked.

Arwen shrugged. “Dad came up with it.”

“It says _café._ It does not say beer. It does not—” she gave a pointed glance at one of the hipsters — “mean protein shakes, or frappés, or chai-kale-harmonica-banjo kombucha.”

“It says donuts on the sign, though,” he pointed out sagely. “You got any of those?”

Tauriel nearly shouted that they didn’t, that this place was just about famous for not having donuts, and what were they doing here anyhow, while Arwen laughed and went to the back to see if she could scare up any beer for them. It was the least she could do—they had probably been traveling for an age. 

Arwen wove her way through the maze of books and boxes that was their twilit back room, which she thought even in her later years must be enchanted, because it was far larger than the space between Glorfindel’s and the alley behind it should allow, and far colder than it ought to be in any weather. The noise of the cafe was almost shut out here. Something about it felt like being underwater, or like she was standing in a doorway between someplace she’d call _here_ and someplace she’d call _there,_ just for ease of speaking. 

It was perfect for the keeping of old books and their stock of coffee, though more perishable things went into a proper refrigerator somewhere along a side wall. And she almost always found what she needed. Sure enough, there was a case of beer, near tomorrow’s bagels, on a long and low table that she didn’t think she’d ever seen before. 

_Enchanted,_ she nodded to herself, grabbing the beer and balancing a match-book on the box, in case Mithrandir needed a light. He usually needed a light. 

It was thorough chaos when she swung the blue door open and stepped into full light again. Someone was throwing things. More than someone. Half of them were throwing things. One had produced a harmonica from his coat-pocket, and Mithrandir himself was smoking (hands-free smoking, however he managed _that_ ) and playing a banjo. 

Tauriel walked over to her, and said quietly, “is this a nightmare?” 

Arwen couldn’t help but laugh. Even after all that had walked into this place, and all that they’d gone out and found themselves, it figured that Tauriel’s nightmare was not breaking her bow in the forest, or losing the dagger she hid under her sleeve during work, but _this._

“Perhaps it is. Or a daydream, or a song we must take part in.” She began humming under the banjo music, and went to pass out coffee and beer. 

“Why are you always so cryptic?”

“Father’s daughter, I think.” That was the surface explanation. But she was starting to wonder. Mithrandir had never traveled with this many before. She never thought she’d see the day. And if he was _here_ , it was because they had a part in it, whatever it was. He might be their Stoner Grandpa, but he knew what he was doing. 

Best to put such thoughts aside for the moment. 

Arwen began singing with the harmonica, making up some words about home and french fries and mountains, because that was what she was thinking about, home and french fries and mountains, which the hipsters seemed to approve of greatly. A few were clapping along. This was certainly Tauriel’s nightmare, but it wasn’t hers. If anything, it gave some life to an otherwise listless weekend. 

When the song died down, Mithrandir came over to the counter to speak with them. 

“Do y’all know if Mr. Baggins is in town?”

“He’s here.”

“He still lives on Green. Still making cakes, too, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“In fact, it is. This Company is looking for a pastry-chef. A fourteenth. And I think he may be just the person for an adventure.”

“What’s the adventure?”

“Not yet, dear friends, not yet. Not your part to be aware until it happens, nor is it mine. Now. Would either of you like a smoke?”

Arwen shook her head, wordless, while Tauriel laughed and thanked him, but still didn’t take any. Someday they might take him up on it. That wasn’t today. 

*****

Across town, Bilbo Baggins sat in front of his fire, quietly reading, with no idea of the tornado that was about to enter his house. 

 


	2. Friday Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Friday night, and everybody's drunk on something. Except Bilbo. He's just confused.

Elrond sat at an otherwise-empty table amid chaos, holding the same drink he’d been holding for a while, and thinking. He usually did at these things: alcohol made him meditative. He had tried, once, to party like Thranduil did, but he just couldn’t manage it. He could not dance. And though his singing was rumored to be enchanting, he only sang when he was sober.

Thranduil held these ridiculous gatherings in the massive hall of his house—and he called them _dinner parties—_ which devolved into a sort of club-like atmosphere of intoxicated dancing. Every. Single. Time. Sometimes somebody plugged in a playlist. Sometimes it was a local band. Sometimes Thranduil called ‘open mic’ and everyone who wanted to attend also had to sing.

The one time Elrond sang at such a gathering it had gone badly. See, A voice infused with the great power of people like Melian and Luthien requires _very_ careful lyric choice. 

Sing something harmless like “ _everyone get on the peace train_ ” (when you are drunk and enchanted), and the next day you’re dragging people back from _miles_ west of Boston.

And so at some point, as it usually did, his pondering gaze fell on Lindir, who became a rather different person at these things. Usually over-nervous and serious, everything was let go when he drank, though he did not do so often. So it was a rare and jarring matter to see Lindir uninhibited. Still, he was elegant in any situation, drunk or sober, stressed or calm, he was beautiful. And in his natural state, he was absolutely petrified of losing everyone else's approval.

It confounded Elrond that he should be so anxious about everything when he was in possession of that quality he had--elegance, beauty, whatever it was. Didn’t he realize that anyone could fall in love with him in a mere second? That he would never really fail, what with his kindness and his voice and—no one could _reject_ someone like that. 

But at that particular moment, he was dancing, if bobbing his head up and down with varying degrees of intensity could be called dancing, and drinking some of Thranduil’s mysterious juice-and-alcohol concoction. Drinking and dancing and eating a sandwich. If Elrond knew Thranduil (and he did) the sandwich was some combination of fried chicken, bacon, some sort of toast, and who knows what else. But Lindir, who was tiny, seemed to need such things, precisely because he was so tiny. Still, he could not handle his alcohol.

He teetered over to Elrond and stood in front of him.

“I wanna tell you—somethin’.” 

Language got the better of Lindir when he was drunk.

“And what is that?”

“Your—face—yes.”

Nope. Language _completely bowled him over_ when he was drunk.

“What?” This was not what he was expecting: in Elrond’s experience, _your face_ was usually a form of half-hearted and ridiculous insult. As in: _I want coffee,_ with the retort, _your face is coffee._ It was something Thranduil occasionally said when _he_ was drunk. But Lindir really could not insult anyone, even with something that stupid, even when inebriated. When he tried, he would get halfway through the insult, apologize, and then hug the supposedly injured party quite forcefully. 

“Your—it’s—it’s a face.” He gestured wildly, still holding the sandwich in one hand, and seeming more off his balance with each passing moment. Elrond stood and pulled the juice from his hand. 

“Wha’d you do that for?”

“I wanted to try it.” Elrond said, and finished it off as Lindir continued to reach for it.

“No you didn’t. You’d’a got your own. You just think I can’t—you just _think_ —that I’m drunk, when I am not.”

“Say the alphabet backwards.”

“Z.” He thought for a moment. “Y. X—X— _X—-”_ He stopped there and continued expounding on the previous subject.

“I mean it’s—it’s a pretty good face. It’s—you’re—really quite lovely, you know. But not—I mean—I mean not to offend you. Did I?” His eyes widened for a second. Then, having completely given up on putting words together, he extended one graceful hand, and touched Elrond’s nose like he was doing the most profound thing on earth.

“ _Boop.”_

It was probably time to get out of here. Lindir wasn’t going to stay on his feet much longer, and Thranduil was calling that everyone take a round of shots. Elrond caught Lindir as he tried to run off in that direction, and led him, with much protestation, out the door and down the lamplit road. 

 

_down the road_

 

Bilbo Baggins was decidedly _not_ a pastry-chef. 

In an older sense of the word, he might have been: he made and occasionally sold excellent pies, cakes, coffee-cakes, and bread products of all kinds. He made these both for his friends and on request, and they always looked lovely. 

But to truly earn the title of _pastry-chef_ lately, you had to be more like that young Tauriel over at Glorfindel’s. You had to be able to not only bake, but to travel extremely long distances, ready and willing to defend yourself against whatever was coming at you, and Bilbo couldn’t act the part of a warrior if he tried. No, he lived in a bright, charming little place in the middle of a bright, charming little street, and felt rather safe there. He was a pastry-chef in the old sense, and he’d never be anything else.

He did not chase the shadows. He did not know how. And he certainly didn’t want to know what hid among them. He preferred his own home, where he knew what was happening.

As such, it distressed him that Gandalf had come by yesterday on his rickety bike offering adventure. They smoked together often—Bilbo’s garden was sizable enough to keep the old wizard’s pipe filled for an age—but he didn’t want to take part in any adventures. 

He wasn’t particularly happy when the knock came at his door.

He was even less happy when a gaggle of hipsters showed up with—dare he say it?—a rather stoned Gandalf behind them, smiling in his benevolent-dozing manner, having haphazardly parked old Shadowfax-the-van in Bilbo’s— _Elbereth!—_ they had parked in the yard. Right next to the garden. Didn’t Gandalf know that garden kept him going half the time? It was hardly the thing to damage, if he had to damage something. 

Anyway, the group of hipsters tumbled in, and Bilbo, wide-eyed, just tried to get himself out of the way. One was asking whether he had any pizza. _Pizza? What?_

He tuned everything out. Gandalf could show them all around, he was sure. The old wizard knew his way around everyone’s houses, from Rivendell across the street to Bilbo’s to Thranduil’s strange, sprawling stone place on the edge of the woods. 

“What—um—what’s going on?” he finally managed to say. There was something more clever, more relevant, he was sure, but this was all he could think of. 

“I got you a donut!” Gandalf exclaimed, “From Glorfindel’s.” 

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes I did.”

“You can’t have. They haven’t got any donuts.”

“Well, I — oh.” Gandalf examined his backpack. “You’re right,” He handed Bilbo a bottle of cold brew with a flourish. “This is not a donut.”

“Well, thank you anyway.” 

“Of course, my dear Baggins,” and then he laughed. Even presumably-stoned, Gandalf retained his usual buoyant kindness.

“Gandalf says you’re our fourteenth,” one of the hipsters said, and he looked to be sizing Bilbo up as he said it. He was the tallest, with the biggest coat, and moreover he had the most regal bearing out of all of them, and so Bilbo thought perhaps he was their leader.

He was rather good-looking as well, actually.

“Thorin Oakenshield, at your service.” 

Privately, Bilbo thought this ironic: Thorin was not at Bilbo’s service, _Bilbo_ was the one doing _him_ a favor—and one he hardly wanted to be doing, at that. 

“Where’s the bacon?” yelled a voice from what sounded suspiciously like the kitchen.

_Oh, no, no, no—not the kitchen._ But, of course, that’s exactly where they were. And they seemed to be making dinner for themselves. Or perhaps it was a second dinner, late as it was by this point.

It was at this moment that Elrond, the head of the huge Rivendell Inn and the smaller Glorfindel’s, decided to walk through the door, literally carrying someone else, who appeared to be protesting that Elrond _needed to put him down, right now, because he was too big, and he could walk anyhow,_ to which Elrond was paying no attention. What was his name? Figwit? Yes, Bilbo was pretty sure his name was Figwit.

Elrond finally set Figwit down in an armchair and strode off, presumably either to find Gandalf or to get water, or both. 

This was most assuredly going to be a long evening. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo's house is filling up. Elsewhere, Glorfindel returns.

 

And indeed it was a long evening. As the alcohol began to wear off on Lindir (his name wasn’t Figwit at all, Bilbo realized, that wasn’t even his last name), he dozed. He shocked himself awake, however, when he mumbled, “no you _can’t_ have my chips” and fell out of the chair. 

At this point he sat up and began looking around the room like a terrified bird. 

_Did he know where he was?_ This crossed Bilbo’s mind a half a second before Lindir began apologizing to all and sundry for—well, Bilbo couldn’t quite discern what. After all, Lindir was still only partly sober. And he was still Lindir, and so his apologies were long and half-thought-out. For he thought he’d done far more wrong than he really had, and was trying to compensate for faults he did not possess. 

Elrond, meanwhile, carried a cup of tea over to Lindir, and sat down next to him on the floor. 

He was unaware that Lindir had fallen out of the chair instead of leaving it voluntarily, otherwise he would have been far more protective, probably checking for injuries and such. As it was, he wished to shield Lindir from just about everything. He couldn’t, of course, and probably would have terrified Lindir if he tried, but he wanted to. 

“Do you know where you are?” He asked gently. Apparently he’d had the same thought as Bilbo.

“It’s too green to be home—am I home?” Elrond wasn’t sure if he meant Rivendell or somewhere else, older. Lindir seemed alarmed by the thought _._ Selfishly, Elrond hoped he wasn’t talking about Rivendell with such anxiety. He hoped—-but it did not matter what he hoped. What mattered was that Lindir felt safe, and if Elrond said all he felt, he feared Lindir would no longer find refuge at Rivendell. 

Of course, calling it “green” was a little odd, too, for this room was yellow, and the furniture was all sorts of assorted patterns. Sometimes Elrond suspected synesthesia, because it seemed more often than not that the musician could hear colors, and in fact heard them far more readily than he saw them. The harmonies (not to mention the harmonica) coming from the kitchen might have been just the shade of green that made Lindir wary. It wasn't unheard of. 

“You are not,” Elrond reassured him, although he wasn’t sure what would frighten Lindir so completely. He’d never spoken of where he came from, and so easily rattled as he was, Elrond never asked him.

“Oh.” He said, not really sounding disappointed, more like the strings were cut from his shoulders. It took Elrond a minute to realize that he wasn't expressing yet more fear, he was dropping his defenses. His eyes were a little less terror-wide, and he took the tea offered to him. He said nothing more. That, at least, was rather unusual.

Elrond has never pressed the matter, never looked for details, but he remained distinctly aware that Lindir had not come from somewhere kind. And he should not have to go back there, in mind or in body, which was why Elrond never asked. That was Lindir’s matter. If he ever wanted to revisit it, Elrond would be happy to oblige and listen, but it wasn’t his place to ask. 

“Have they asked me to go back?”

“No, they haven’t.” 

Lindir occasionally spoke of an entity he called _they,_ and only did so with great trepidation. This _they_ seemed to be the people he had come from, and he seemed to mistrust them entirely. Lindir, of course, mistrusted most people, but this was rather different. Perhaps this was the source of the thing. 

In some show of gratitude, or trust, or exhaustion, he leaned against Elrond, and drank the tea he’d been given. He could say nothing, express nothing, except that he was quite glad he didn’t have to go anywhere, and was rather hungover as well. 

Meanwhile, the hipsters in the kitchen were singing loudly and banging on pots and pans for drums. 

Lindir seemed unperturbed at that, Elrond thought.

In fact, he was quite perturbed, but he was so terribly content to be this close to Elrond that he was not going to move in order to tell them to stop banging on pots and pans. 

Bilbo, meanwhile, was at the end of his rope, running between rooms trying to make sure no one was going to break anything. The hipsters would not break anything, but he didn’t know that. As it was, he couldn’t comprehend how this had happened. How had Gandalf let this many people into his house? This was just too much. Especially when he hadn’t been expecting anyone. Elrond and Figwit would’ve been welcome, even Gandalf would’ve been welcome. Maybe not just as he was about to go to sleep, but they would’ve been welcome. _They_ didn’t decide to make themselves at home by eating all his cake, _his very carefully decorated cake_ , as though it was a mere pan of brownies. 

Gandalf paused in his smoking. 

“I feel a presence,” he said.

Elrond looked at him warily.

“Nothing frightful. Or at least, nothing more frightful than usual. Just someone I haven’t seen in a while.”

Elrond nodded, but Bilbo couldn’t help noticing that he pulled Figwit a little closer. And Figwit, who he was pretty sure was only pretending to be asleep, smiled.

“You want a smoke?”

Elrond declined. From the kitchen, the hipsters continued to sing.

 

_across town_

 

Arwen was waltzing around the now-closed cafe, singing, clearing cups off tables, weaving the air around her into something different as she went. 

If you looked (and you didn’t have to look very hard) some of the darkness outside the cafe’s wide windows was thicker than mere night. It was fluid, rushing over itself like water. It wanted to get in, and the only thing between it and them was Arwen’s web of song. 

Tauriel stood against the counter, just listening. _If ever Luthien had existed, certainly her image was here now._

This wasn’t good. She was getting _feelings_. Tauriel liked to think that such things couldn’t befall her, and that if they did, she could handle it. But alas. This was spiraling out of her control. 

What was she thinking? Arwen probably loved some man somewhere. And if it wasn’t that, there was probably another girl. Arwen, after all, was so beautiful, and Tauriel was Tauriel, and she couldn’t see such a thing happening. 

On one long and low note, Arwen finished singing, and took the plates to the dishwasher. This was something she did every few nights, and then the web held for a few nights, and then the shadows would come back. They were not perceptive enough to notice individual people, but they sought out places of light. Rivendell, the cafe, Thranduil’s house—all were targets, protected in turn by Arwen and her father. 

Someone called unintelligibly from the back. Arwen jumped about twelve feet in the air while Tauriel drew her dagger, quite ready to defend Arwen from anything that would—but that wouldn’t do. Arwen fought in stranger ways than Tauriel could say, but she _could_ defend herself. She could sing her way out of any danger she was put into. And she didn’t need protecting. 

Elrond could do the same, but he preferred to fight with a sword and not to sing at all. It had, she believed, had something to do with a Mirkwood party and the large number of people who’d gotten on trains afterwards. But she wasn’t sure. 

The call came again. Then again, but this time it solidified into words: “My _dudes!_ Hey my dudes!” 

That is to say, Glorfindel had come home, after four years. 

He walked in no different than he had left, no added darkness in his eyes, no lack of shine to his pristine blond hair. He seemed just as (over)confident as he’d always been, just as bright and cheerful. Except now he walked with an exceptionally large dog in tow.

Arwen was the first to run to hug him, calling back “ _My dude!”_ very joyfully, if uncharacteristically. She didn’t usually say things like _my dude_. Tauriel followed, hugging Glorfindel a little more hesitantly, but still overjoyed to see him. It had been so long, after all. They had begun to wonder whether he was going to come back. They’d received the occasional message from him that things were all right, but those messages had been terse and without detail. 

“And who is this?” Arwen asked, stepping forward to pet the dog’s head. Tuariel though she saw the animal glare at the childish tones Arwen took on when she said that.

“He’s Huan.”

“Like after Celegorm’s dog?”

“No, like the same one.”

“Oh!” Arwen jumped back from where she’d been petting Huan as though he were one of her own dogs, and straightened up, holding out her hand as if to shake another person’s. “I’m so sorry! It’s—it’s an absolute honor.”

But Huan touched her hand with the top of his head, as if to say it was all right. 

“I brought Asfaloth as well,” he said brightly, grinning as though no one could possibly object to that. 

He also didn’t seem to think they would have any questions as to where he’d been, where he’d found Huan, or why he’d returned. He was acting like he’d ridden across town, picked up Huan from a group of strays, and brought him back. Like the dog wasn’t legendary. Like he himself hadn’t become legendary. Like hadn’t been gone for _four years._

“You don’t mean—”

Arwen was cut off by a loud whinnying. 

“You brought Asfaloth into the cafe.”

“Yes?”

“Have your four years in the woods—”

Glorfindel laughed. “Four years? Arwen, have you been having those weird dreams again?” 

“It really has been four years,” Tauriel said, more than frightened. She drew her knife. If this wasn’t Glorfindel, she didn’t know what it was, but she would at least go down fighting. 

But the first thing he said at that was a sort of strangled, “ _Erestor!”_ and Tauriel put her knife back as quickly as she’d drawn it. That had never been admitted aloud. Glorfindel would never, even under the duress of some kind of mind-reading, admit what was buried so deeply. _Nobody_ knew about that, nobody would, except perhaps Tauriel, for she could see in his face what he could not even admit to himself. 

“He’s still at home,” Arwen assured Glorfindel. “He hasn’t left, and he hasn’t forgotten you.”

“You’re sure? Four years? It feels like it’s only been a few days.”

“It hasn’t been.”

“But all I did was ride up toward Boston.”

“And why didn’t you get all the way there?”

“Because I didn’t need to. I—I wanted to turn around.” 

“And where did you find Huan?”

“He was—he was—” shades of perplexion crossed his beautiful face. 

She turned to address Huan. “Did you rescue him, sunshine?” There was no helping it—she was still talking to the fearsome warrior-hound like he was one of her fluffballs. She probably always would.

He confirmed her suspicion with a gesture of his head and a look in his eyes, almost clearer than if he had spoken. 

“I suppose he can’t tell us from what,” she said. 

“We have to find your dad, before the rest of this.” Tauriel said, “we can deal with it all later.”

“He went to Mirkwood.”

“Then we have to find Mithrandir.”

“Didn’t he go to—”

“Baggins’ place, yeah. He won’t be happy that we’re invading on him, but we don’t really have a choice.” 

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you're wondering what world we're in, dear reader, I am asking myself the same question. For now, I'm going to call it Post-Apocalyptic Boston. Something is lurking in the forests, Glorfindel is hunting it. Not all technology has been lost, but there are no cell phones. Magic is real. Hipsters are also real. 
> 
> That is, I'm still figuring out what this world is, but I do hope you'll join me in it!


End file.
